


When you are at a loss for words

by Fatale (femme)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 17:23:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale





	When you are at a loss for words

When you are at a loss for words  
Sam/Dean  
Rated R!  
WC: 693

Set after-ish 8x13. Takes place in the Men of Letters Uber!Secret!Library. Nothing fancy. I haven't written SPN fic in years, just wanted to get my sea legs back and write some sex.

Plus, I could NOT let that "gay thing" comment in 8x13 go.

 

 

"So," Sam says, "the gay thing." He's sitting in the library with stacks of old books around him, next to Dean, thumbing dispassionately through another text.

"Hmm?" Dean turns a page in his own book.

Sam clears his throat. "The gay thing. What did you mean by that?"

Dean closes the book with a sigh, sending dust scattering across the table. "What gay thing?"

Sam wishes he hadn't started this conversation, wishes the floor might open up and swallow him whole, but not like in a Going To Hell Way, just a nervous way. "The thing," he chokes. "You know, you said you had a gay thing earlier."

"Oh, that. Don't you remember? It was the little Rabbi."

He waits for more, but when it's not forthcoming, he pushes. "Wait, what-" He feels his face burning in protest of this conversation, but continues doggedly on, "You had a gay thing with the Rabbi?"

Dean finally looks up at him. "What are you saying to me." No question, a statement, like Dean's probably going to start throwing punches soon.

"Nothing," Sam says, his mind screaming _LIAR_ at him.

"Are you," Dean licks his lips. "Are you trying to ask me if I picked up some random dude, then called you to tell you about it and called it a gay thing?"

There's a dangerous glint in his eye.

Sam's stomach knots up in anticipation of pain, but it's like he's been possessed - literally - and he just can't seem to shut up. "Something like that?"

Dean looks at Sam with hard eyes, considering. Sam can practically see the insults to Sam's masculinity, his intelligence, his penis size rolling around in Dean's head.

Instead, Dean smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners the way they only do when he's truly amused. "There's only you, Sammy."

Dean closes Sam's book, takes it from his hands and throws it over his shoulder and leans closer. Sam opens his mouth to protest the mistreatment of very old, probably very valuable books, but is cut off by Dean's mouth on his own.

"There's only you," Dean repeats, voice husky, the words almost swallowed by the slide of his lips against Sam's. He feels his body respond, in the familiar and discomforting way, used to Dean's touch but still vaguely appalled at how easily it comes.

He stands up, chair creaking, and grabs Dean's face, ignoring the sound of protest Dean makes. Dean had once told him that he hated being man-handled by Sam's enormous _paws_ , it made him feel like a delicate lady, he said, but Sam does it this time anyway, slides his hand down's Dean's throat, to his chest, just to feel his heartbeat. He wants to own this - this stuttering heartbeat, this trembling lower lip, too feminine for Dean's face. He wants to fuck Dean, hold his hand, sleep next to him and grow old with him.

He's always wanted too much.

Dean sighs into his mouth, and his hands wander down to Sam's zipper, fingers hesitating, asking. Sam presses his hips more firmly into Dean's in answer, feels the growing heat in his belly. Dean undoes his zipper, takes him into his hand and jerks him off lazily, pressing sweaty kisses into his throat.

"Yes," Sam forces out, no more than a hiss of breath, "Dean, oh God-" and comes into Dean's hand.

Dean wipes his hand on his jeans before Sam can protest, hey, they don't have a washer and that is _nasty_.

"Sam, Sammy," Dean says, pressing light kisses over his jaw, his ear, over his closed eyes. Dean will deny this strange tenderness later, punch Sam on the arm and joke and curse.

Sam ducks his head, memorizes the feel of Dean's stubble against his cheek. He keeps his eyes closed in fear of Dean seeing the sheer panic there. Sam doesn't want Dean to know what Dean means to him, how he would let the whole world burn if it meant one more day with him.

"Dean," Sam says, grabs his shirt with both fists and holds on until his knuckles are white.

Sam thinks maybe Dean knows anyway.

 

 

 

The end.

 


End file.
